


The Loss of Tol Sirion  (Apr 1, 2015)

by Uvatha_the_Horseman



Category: Silmarillion, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 15:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6430426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uvatha_the_Horseman/pseuds/Uvatha_the_Horseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sauron battles Luthien the great hound Huan for Tol Sirion, and loses everything but the shirt on his back. No, make that everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loss of Tol Sirion  (Apr 1, 2015)

The Loss of Tol Sirion - April 1 Edition

Mairon Artano[1] stood in the Tower of Tol Sirion, looking into the distance. There wasn't much to see. The evening light had almost failed, but whitecaps in the River Sirion seemed to glow in the dark. Far below, the arched stone bridge led from the island to the mainland.

Then he heard it, a snatch of song. It might have been the sighing of the river, except that filled his mind with images of nightingales, and of stars overhead in the darkening sky. Chief among them was the Sickle of Melkor, the symbol of his Master's downfall. Mairon ground his teeth, and his nails dug into the palms of his hands. Wolves howled in response to his anger, and the island trembled.

The clouds parted, and moonlight cast shadows of bare branches against the ground. Its silver light revealed a woman standing on the arched bridge, her black hair and dark mantle billowing around her, singing the enchanted song. Her face was so like Melian's, her voice also. She must be Melian's daughter Lúthien, a she-elf famed for her beauty.

None came to this evil place alone and unarmed, she was as good as captured. The last to attempt it, a dozen warriors disguised as Orcs, now lay in the dungeon chained to the walls. That is to say, the few who remained. Most had already been eaten.

But that would not be her fate. He would bring her to Angband himself, a gift for his Master's bed.

An image came to him unbidden. In his mind's eye he saw her skin pale against the coverlet, her black hair fanned out over the pillow. Her face was wet. His Master knelt between her legs, his chest bare, his leggings unlaced and pushed halfway down his thighs. She begged him not to do it. He studied her with cold eyes, then leaned forward, his weight supported on his hands. The headboard banged against the wall, and the bed curtains swung to the same rhythm.

Mairon shook his head to clear it. It was none of his business. All that mattered was that Melkor would like the gift and reward Mairon with greater responsibilities and privileges.

He sent a wolf down to capture the girl. It didn't return. He sent down another, it didn't return, either. He sent down Draugluin, the Sire of all Werewolves and the most dangerous of his kind. A huge grey beast, his fangs could slash like razors, and they were filled with venom like a snake's.

Draugluin descended to the bridge and leapt upon Huan. The snarling and snapping went on far longer than it should, and ended when Draugluin broke free and fled back to the Tower.

Mairon ran down the stairs two at a time. He missed the last step and went flying, but was back on his feet in an instant. Draugluin staggered toward him, but his legs buckled and he collapsed on the flagstones, his grey fur drenched in blood.

"It is Huan," Draugluin said, and died at Mairon's feet.

Mairon stiffened. Huan was no ordinary hound, he was a Hound of Valinor. The prophecy said that Huan could only be killed by the greatest wolf that ever lived. That should have been Draugluin, yet Draugluin lay here, dead. Unless the prophecy referred to himself. Long ago, Mairon walked the earth in the form of a great wolf. He could still take on that shape easily.

Outside, the woman and her hound waited on the bridge with the bodies of his wolves around them. Mairon controlled his fury enough to think. His usual wolf form wouldn't be enough. He needed to assume the shape of the largest, most dangerous wolf that ever lived, bigger and more ferocious even than Draugluin.

He went into a guardroom and told the guards to leave. He took off his boots and mantle, then stripped off his belt, tunic, leggings, and undergarments, folding each item and stacking them on the end of a bench.

He formed an image of the greatest of all werewolves, every detail of the animal's body, its muscles, its sinews, the color if its fur, the length of its teeth. When he was ready, he closed his eyes and drew a breath. Fur covered his body and his mouth filled up with fangs. His weight doubled, making the floor pressed hard against his bare feet. He dropped to his front paws and moved forward, sheer power rippling over his muscles.

He left the Tower and stood on the bridge. To his heightened senses, smells were everywhere, and the scent of she-elf made the hair on his neck rise up.

He leapt at her. The she-elf screamed, and whipped her cloak at his eyes. The sleep spell started to work as soon as it hit him. Momentarily stunned, Mairon's front legs buckled beneath him. He recovered almost right away, but in that short instant, Huan seized him by the throat.

He found himself on his back, the fangs of the beast had a by the windpipe. He couldn't breathe. He shifted shape into a serpent, and then a demon, but the great hound held on. His own blood ran down his neck, soaking the ground beneath him.

"Yield the island and everything on it, and I'll spare you," said the she-elf.

His vision started to go. Fainting, he mouthed assent. The hound released its jaws from his windpipe, and he rolled over, coughing and gasping for air.

The she-elf was laughing. Not just laughing, but bent over and slapping her thigh.

"So, have we forgotten something?" she asked him.

The wind stirred, and the night air was cold on his skin. That was the problem with shape shifting, fur didn't turn into clothes, it was the hair on his arms and legs. His clothes were back in the guardroom, neatly folded on a bench. He got up and struggled to his feet.

"I need to go into the Tower to get dressed, and then I'll leave," Mairon said with as much dignity as he could manage.

"You yielded the island and everything on it. That means everything." She pointed across the bridge, to the point where the stone structure met the banks of the River Sirion. "Start walking."

He wasn't much given to swearing, but on this occasion he made an exception. He turned and stomped off, his hands curled into fists, with his teeth clenched and his breath snorting through his nose. Lúthien's silvery laughter followed him from the crest of the bridge.

He didn't look back. When he reached the far side of the bridge, where running water gave way to solid ground, he raised his arms. A leathery membrane formed under them, spreading until it stretched from his thumb to the prominent bone in his ankle.

He brought his arms down hard, feeling the loose folds of skin fill with wind. He flapped again and lifted the greater part of his weight from the ground. The earth fell away below him. Bridge, river, and island, he left them behind.

Melkor would hear of this, and he would not be pleased. Tol Sirion was an important fortress, and Mairon lost it because he'd picked a fight with a slip of a girl who turned around and beat him to a pulp. At the very least, Melkor would have him horsewhipped for poor judgment, and if he were really angry, would strip him of rank.

Mairon realized he was shaking. If he disappeared into the forest and stayed away from Angband for, say, a year, it would give Melkor enough time to calm down. On the other hand, if Melkor heard the story from Marion first, the consequences might be less bad. He'd never been a coward. He turned north and skimmed over the treetops, blood dripping from his throat.

-o-o-o-o-o-

In the cold of the far north, the great forests of Beleriand were reduced to stunted shrubs growing between cracks of rock that were white with frost.

The three peaks of Thangorodrim rose from the cliff face ahead. Smoke rose from them and was carried away by the wind that was never still in this barren land. Between the peaks, a walkway of enormous length led to the gates of Angband, the Hells of Iron. Mairon had built Angband and been its first commander before Utumno fell and Melkor moved the Court here. He still considered it his home.

He swooped low and brought his hands to his shoulders, dropping lightly to the ground. He was careful to keep his hands well away from his face, the scythe-like claws were razor-sharp.

The Orc guards turned to stare at him but didn't raise their weapons, but made no move to open the gate. In his shifted shape, it was possible they didn't know who he was.

Talons became fingernails, the soft grey fur thinned to nothing, and the loose membranes beneath his arms tightened and disappeared. The air moved, and goosebumps sprang up on his arms and legs. Someone snorted, but turned it into a cough.

He walked toward them, a figure of authority.

"Open the gate." His voice was deep and commanding.

"Lord Mairon, I didn't recognize you at first. We haven't seen so much of you lately, said the Orc Captain."

Someone laughed and tried to turn it into a cough. A spear clattered to the flagstones. Its owner bent to retrieve it and stayed down longer than necessary, his hand jammed over his mouth, his ribs heaving.

"I mean, we haven't seen so much of you, what with you being away so much." The Orc Captain seemed unsure where to look.

"Open the gate," said Mairon.

The Orc Captain made a gesture in the direction of the gatehouse, and the rust-streaked door swung open with a scream of hinges.

Mairon walked through it into the stone antechamber, deserted at the moment, that led into the halls of Angband. His rooms were nearby, and if he could reach the servants' stair unseen, he could make it there without running into anyone he knew. He ducked into the narrow doorway and had just started to mount the uneven steps when a voice stopped him in his tracks. He wheeled around. A servant stood there, twisting his hands together. He lowered his eyes as servants were taught to, but quickly returned them to Mairon's face.

"Sir? Lord Melkor said you're to report as soon as you arrived."

Mairon cursed silently, guessing that Melkor had already heard about the loss of Tol Sirion. This conversation was not going to be pleasant. He needed just one minute to wash off the gore and pull on the first garment that came to hand, and then he would report to his master.

"Tell Lord Melkor I'm on my way. You are dismissed."

"I'm terribly sorry, but he said now."

Mairon ground his teeth as he followed the servant to the chamber where Melkor kept his throne. The flagstones were cold beneath his feet. They reached the audience chamber. Twin doors of iron swung open, and the guards on either side stood aside to let them pass.

The Great Chamber was full. Only the path from the doors to Melkor's throne had been left clear. A hundred eyes swung in his direction. From the middle of the assembly, Thuringwethil, his herald, met his eye. Her gaze dropped from his face downward, and stayed there.

Mairon kept his eyes straight ahead and held his chin high. He was a proud creature, but it's hard to look dignified when you're butt naked.

Melkor sat on his throne, the Iron Crown on his head. In shadow beneath the gleam of the three Silmarils, his master's eyes were unreadable.

"I heard you'd lost Tol Sirion and escaped with nothing but the clothes on your back. It seems I heard wrong."

**Author's Note:**

> [1] Sauron


End file.
